GIFT  or 


Photomount 
Pamphlet 

Binder 
Gay  lord  Bros. 

Makers 


LETTER^FROM 
THER^TO   HIS^SO 


JOHN-D    SWAIN 


•    •      •  ' 


EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 


FROM  THE  FUND 

ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 

WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 

SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 

YALE  UNIVERSITY 


A  Father  to  His  Son 


A  Father  to  His  Son 


A  LETTER  TO  AN  UNDERGRADUATE 
UPON  HIS   ENTERING   COLLEGE 


By 
JOHN    D.   SWAIN 


NEW  HAVEN 

Yale  Publishing  Association 
1912 


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A  Father  to  His  Son 


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A  Father  to  His  Son 

MY  DEAR  SON:  I  am  writing 
a  few  things  I  meant  to  say 
to  you  when  we  took  our  last  walk 
together,  the  day  before  you  left  for 
Yale.  I  intended  to  sav.them  thi'^n^. 
and  I  will  even  confess  that  I  shame- 
lessly inveigled  you  into  taking  a 
stroll  on  the  quiet  street  that  I 
might  rehearse  a  carefully  prepared 
bit  of  Chesterfield  up-to-date;  but 
somehow  I  could  not  seem  to  begin, 
—  and,  after  all,  perhaps  I  can  write 
what  was  in  my  mind  more  freely 
and  plainly  than  I  could  have 
spoken  it. 

[7] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

I  think  I  had  never  realized  be- 
fore that  I  was  getting  old. 

Of  course  I  have  known  that  my 
hair  is  causing  your  mother  much 
soUcitude,  and  that  I  am  hopelessly 
wedded  to  my  pince-nez  while  read- 
ing my  daily  paper,  and  at  the 
opeia;  but  in  some  incomprehen- 
sible way  I  had  forgotten  to  asso- 
ciate these  trifles  with  the  encroach- 
ments of  time.  It  was  the  sudden 
realization  that  you  were  about  to 
become  a  Freshman  in  the  college 
from  which,  as  it  seems  to  me,  I  but 
yesterday  graduated,  that  "froze  the 
genial  current  of  my  -soul,'*  and 
spared  you  my  paternal  lecture. 

Why,  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  still 

[8] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

hear  the  Ivy  Song,  as  we  sang  it  that 
beautiful  June  morning;  and  yet  but 
a  few  nights  more  and  you  will  be 
locked  in  the  deadly  Rush  on  the 
same  field^  where  I  triumphantly 
received  two  blackened  eyes,  and,  I 
trust,  gave  many  more! 

Another  thing,  trifling  in  itself, 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  of  my 
advancing  years. 

My  son,  my  loyal  and  affectionate 
boy,  some  day  it  may  be  yours  to 
know  the  pain,  the  unreasonable  pain 
that  comes  over  a  man  to  know 
that  between  him  and  his  boy,  and 
his  boy's  friends,  an  unseen  but  un- 
assailable barrier  has  arisen,  erected 
by  no  human  agency;  and  to  feel  that 

[9] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

while  they  may  experience  a  vague 
respect  and  even  curiosity  to  know 
what  exists  on  your  side  of  the  barrier, 
you  on  your  part  would  give  all,  — 
wealth,  position,  influence,  honor,  to 
get  back  to  theirs!  All  the  world, 
clumsily  or  gracefully,  is  crawling 
over  this  barrier;  but  not  one  ever 
crawls  back  again! 

You  have  ever  seemed  happy  to  be 
with  me;  you  have  worked  with  me, 
read  and  smoked  with  me,  even  played 
golf  with  me;  but  the  subtle  change 
in  your  attitude,  the  kindling  of  your 
eye  when  we  met  young  men  of  your 
age,  is  the  keenest  pain  I  have  ever 
known;  yet  one  which,  God  knows! 
I  would  not  reproach  you  with. 

[10] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

It  explains  what  I  used  to  see  on 
my  father's  face  and  did  not  under- 
stand. 

For  the  tyranny  of  youth,  my  son, 
is  the  one  tyranny  which  never  has 
been,  never  can  be  overthrown.  Noth- 
ing can  displace  it,  nothing  shake  its 
power. 

I  usually  beat  you  at  golf,  and  occa- 
sionally at  tennis;  I  suppose  that  if 
we  were  to  spar  together  I  might  still 
make  a  respectable  showing,  and  at 
least  "save  my  face."  It  avails  noth- 
ing. I  am  on  my  side  of  the  barrier, 
you  on  yours. 

It  seems  but  a  year  and  a  day  since 
I  tucked  the  ball  under  my  arm  and 
sped  down  the  gridiron,  sustained  by 

[II] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

the  yells  of  my  partisans;  and  if  our 
game  lacked  the  machine-like  pre- 
cision of  the  mass  formations  you  are 
already  somewhat  familiar  with,  it 
was  a  good  game,  and  we  were  good 
men,  and  all  on  the  right  side  of  the 
barrier! 

So  bear  with  me  if  I  pause  a  mo- 
ment and  gaze  back  across  this  inevi- 
table gulf  into  the  pleasant  land  that 
lies  behind  me,  —  a  picture  evoked 
by  your  dawning  college  career. 

I  would  not  have  you  think  me  re- 
gretful, or  melancholy.  Life  has  been 
good  to  me  —  and  every  age  has 
its  gifts  for  the  man  who  is  willing  to 
work  for  them  and  use  them  tem- 
perately.    And  nothing  is  more  un- 

[12] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS   SON 

graceful,  more  ludicrous,  than  the 
spectacle  of  one  who  attempts  to 
linger  over  the  pleasures  of  an  age 
he  had  outlived,  and  ignore  the  ad- 
vantages of  his  own  time  of  life. 

Yet,  as  the  years  bring  weakness, 
the  mind  persistently  drifts  back  to 
the  earlier  periods  of  life,  until  the 
aged  actually  enter  a  phase  we  not 
inaptly  name  "second  childhood," 
from  which  Heaven  forefend  me! 

I  can  still  appreciate  a  pair  of 
sparkling  blue  eyes,  and  I  am  not 
oblivious  to  the  turn  of  a  pretty  shoul- 
der; although  I  devoutly  trust  that 
my  interest  is  now  impersonal,  and 
merely  artistic. 

I  can  still  do  my  i8  holes  of  golf 

[13] 


A  FATHER   TO  HIS  SON 

well  under  85  and  I  think  I  shot  last 
fall  as  well  as  ever  in  my  life;  but  I 
must  admit,  sadly  but  not  rancor- 
ously,  that  I  much  prefer  my  com- 
fortable grandstand  seat  to  my  old 
position  of  halfback,  and  I  should 
not  be  willing  to  run  at  top  speed  for 
a  quarter  of  a  mile,  except  upon  a 
matter  of  great  moment. 

And  so,  comfortably  situated  upon 
my  side  of  the  barrier,  let  me,  my  dear 
son,  who  have  spared  you  so  much 
elderly  wisdom  (more,  I  fear,  because 
I  have  hitherto  been  blissfully  una- 
ware of  my  own  seniority  than  from 
any  conscious  motive)  let  me,  I  say, 
indulge  in  a  few  customary  parental 
warnings  to  you  at  this  time.     I  trust 

[14] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

that  they  will  not  be  hackneyed,  and 
I  know  that  they  will  be  sincere. 

Some  fathers  say  to  their  sons  upon 
the  first  home  leaving,  —  "  Beware  of 
wine  and  women!"     I  do  not. 

If  your  home  life  has  not  taught  you 
the  virtues  of  a  temperate,  clean  life, 
as  I  hope,  then  no  words  of  mine  can 
do  it,  and  you  must  learn,  as  too  many 
others  have,  from  a  bitter  intimacy 
with  its  antithesis. 

As  to  women,  I  never  avoided 
them;  I  sought  them  out,  from  the 
time  when,  a  red-cheeked  youngster, 
I  trudged  to  school  beside  a  red- 
cheeked  lassie  —  asleep  these  many 
years  in  the  little  village  lot  where 
lie    so    many   with    whom    I    fought 

[15] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

and    played   these   many  years  gone 
by. 

I  have  no  advice  to  offer  you  on 
this  great  subject;  its  ethics  are  not 
taught  by  letter.  If  I  have  any 
regrets,  they  are  not  for  your  ear,  nor 
any  man's.  And  if,  of  some  women 
I  have  known,  I  cannot  say  that  I 
lifted  them  up,  at  least  of  no  woman 
can  it  be  said  that  I  thrust  her 
down! 

I  ask  of  you  no  more  than  this  and 
the  guidance  of  your  own  heart; 
that,  in  the  latter  years,  when  you, 
too,  pass  over  the  barrier,  you  may 
not  leave  behind  you  shadows  on 
the  flower-decked  meadows  of  your 
youth. 

[i6] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

You  will  probably  play  cards  in 
college;  most  men  do,  —  I  did. 
The  gambling  instinct  in  man  is 
primordial.  Kept  under  due  bounds, 
if  not  useful;  it  is  at  least  compara- 
tively harmless.  This  is  the  very 
best  that  I  or  any  honest  man  can 
say  of  it.  I  should  be  glad  if  you 
never  cared  to  gamble;  but  I  do  not 
ask  it.  Assuming  that  you  w^ill,  I 
do  not  insult  you,  and  myself  equally, 
by  w^arning  you  against  unfairness; 
to  suppose  you  capable  of  cheating 
at  cards  is  to  suppose  an  impossi- 
bility. You  could  not  do  so  without 
forfeiting  the  right  ever  to  enter  your 
home  again.  But  some  careless  and 
insidious  practices,  not  unknown  in 

[17] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

my  day  and  class,  savor  to  the 
upright  mind  of  cheating,  without 
always  incurring  its  penalties. 

To  play  with  men  whom  you  know 
cannot  afford  to  lose,  and  who  must 
either  cheat  or  suffer  privation;  to 
play  when  you  yourself  must  win 
your  bet  to  square  yourself;  that  is, 
when  you  do  not  reasonably  see  how 
you  are  going  to  raise  the  money  to 
pay  providing  you  lose,  —  this  is  a 
gambler's  chance  to  which  no  gentle- 
man will  ever  expose  his  fellow  players. 

There  is  nothing  heroic  about  these 
desperate  casts  of  the  die;  one  risks 
only  the  other  fellow's  money.  These 
practices  I  ask  and  expect  you  to 
avoid. 

[i8] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

I  ask  nothing  of  you  in  the  way  of 
a  declared  position  on  religion.  Your 
mother  may  have  demanded  more  of 
you  here,  —  entreated  more;  I  can- 
not. I  ask'  but  this;  that  you  will 
give  earnest,  serious  consideration  to 
the  fact  that  we  exist  on  this  planet 
for  a  shockingly  brief  fraction  of 
Eternity;  that  it  behooves  every  man 
to  diligently  seek  an  answer  to  the 
great  question,  —  Why  am  I  here  ? 
And  then,  as  best  he  can,  to  live  up 
to  the  ideal  enjoined  by  his  answer. 
And  if  this  carries  you  far,  and  if  it 
leads  you  to  embrace  any  of  the  great 
creeds  of  Christendom,  this  will  be 
to  your  mother  an  unspeakable  joy, 
and  perhaps  not  less  so  to  me;  but  it 

[19] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

is  a  question  which  cannot  be  settled 
by  the  mere  filial  desire  to  please. 

Last  of  all,  while  you  are  in  college, 
be  of  it  and  support  its  every  health- 
ful activity. 

I  ask  no  academic  honor  your 
natural  inclinations  may  not  lead 
you  to  strive  for;  no  physical 
supremacy  your  animal  spirits  may 
not  instinctively  reach  out  and  grasp. 

You  will,  I  presume,  make  the 
fraternity  I  made,  and,  I  hope,  the 
societies;  you  will  probably  then 
learn  that  your  father  was  not  always 
a  dignified,  bearded  man  in  pince- 
nez  and  frock  coat,  and  that  on  his 
side  of  the  barrier  he  cut  not  a  few 
capers  which,  seen  in  the  clear  light 
[20] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

of  his  summer,  gain  little  grace.  Yet, 
were  he  to  live  his  life  over  again,  he 
would  cut  the  same,  or  worse. 

Finally,  if  you  make  any  of  the 
teams,  never  quit.  That  is  all  the 
secret  of  success.     Never  quit! 

Quitting,  I  like  to  believe,  has  not 
been  a  striking  characteristic  of  our 
family,  and  it  is  not  tolerated  in  our 
college. 

If  you  can't  win  the  scholarship, 
fight  it  out  to  the  end  of  the  examina- 
tion. 

If  you  can't  win  your  race,  at  least 
finish  —  somewhere. 

If  your  boat  can't  win,  at  least 
keep  pulling  on  your  oar,  even  if 
your  eye  glazes  and  the  taste  of  blood 
[21] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SON 

comes   into   your   throat   with    every 
heave. 

If  you  cannot  make  your  five  yards 
in  football,  keep  bucking  the  line  — 
never  let  up,  —  if  you  can't  see,  or 
hear,  keep  plugging  ahead!  Never 
quit!  If  you  forget  all  else  I  have 
said,  remember  these  two  words, 
through  all  your  life,  and  come 
success  or  failure,  I  shall  proudly 
think  of  you  as  my  own  dear  son. 

And  so,  from  the  old  home-life, 
farewell,  and  Godspeed! 

Your  Affectionate  Father. 


[22] 


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